Betrayal
by YL
Summary: [Renji x Rukia x Ichigo] When love becomes hate, and hate is nothing more than an act of masochism, when does it all stop? ONE SHOT


**Note: **Slight vulgarity and mentions of sex, but nothing explicit.

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**Betrayal**

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He sat silently by the window, drinking the tea had long gone cold. It left a bitter aftertaste in his tongue, very much like the taste of the cigarette that had already gone out in its ashtray. Perhaps it was not the tea he tasted at all.

He lit a new one and took a long, slow drag. He allowed the smoke to linger in his lungs for longer than what he was used to. He held it till his body begged desperately for oxygen, nearly like he could die, before he finally exhaled it.

A gust of chilly wind hit against his already half-frozen cheeks. He had been there for four and a half hours, when the world was still quietly sleeping and the sky was still that beautiful color of her eyes. Now, the morning mist had already begun to lift and the dash of dawn's cobalt had touched the horizon.

_She's back._

He stubbed out his cigarette and threw the tea out of the window. Leaving the cup on his desk, unwashed, he returned to the bed that had lost the warmth imprint of his body.

And hers.

He slipped under the blankets, closing his eyes, quietly waiting for her to return back to him, just like she was never gone.

And he would never breathe a word.

He could keep pretending. If that was what it took to keep her by his side.

_x . x . x_

"Renji…" a gasp slipped from her throat.

"Shhhh."

Skin upon skin, sweat upon sweat, breath upon breath, he pressed himself harder against her. He brushed her blonde hair away from her damp face and pressed his lips harshly against hers, his tongue slipping in with a familiarity that he knew he should be ashamed of. Her fingers clawed at his back as her body trembled beneath him.

His lips parted from hers.

She tasted different. She smelt different. She looked different. She was different. But it did not matter. Not anymore.

As the last spurt of energy dissipated from him, he fell against her full body and then rolled onto his back so that he was now lying beside her in the wet puddle, staring at the white ceiling of her bathroom. The water was still running into the bathtub, splashing upon their already drenched faces. It swirled down the unplugged drain pipe, washing away everything from their bodies, almost like a symbolic cleansing of a sin - and a sorrow - that could not be washed away.

They were just two people seeking solace in each other, replacing the pain with something else, hoping that the grief in them would just fade away. But of course, both of them knew better. They were both drowning in their own ocean of denial. And a drowning man could not save himself, much less save another.

He climbed out of the tub and threw a towel around his waist. He exited the room, his wet, crimson hair leaving trails of water across the floor.

"You're making my couch wet, Abarai." She always reverted to his last name after everything was over. It was like a wall that she built, a distance that she placed between the both of them in an attempt to pretend that nothing had transpired between them on such errant nights of fornication. Unceremoniously, she dumped a towel on top of his head and pushed an ashtray towards him.

"Thanks," he muttered as she disappeared behind the door to her room. He tapped the ashes off his cigarette.

She returned to the living room wrapped in a dry bathrobe, her damp hair tied up in a loose, casual bun. "You've been smoking a lot more these days." She took the cigarette from him, placed it into her own mouth and sunk into the seat adjacent to his.

He went to pour himself a cup of _sake _and offered one to her as well, which she appreciatively accepted.

It was a ritual by now. Sex, tobacco and alcohol. Sex, tobacco and alcohol. Sex, tobacco and alcohol.

It was like a religious ritual that, if performed enough, would make everything right. This of course, was nothing more than a pitiful illusion by two pitiful people. They had already dug a grave too deep for them to get out of.

"You guys fought?"

A mirthless laugh escaped him.

She swirled the _sake_ around in the _choko_. "Then what?"

"She smells like him. Every time she comes back, she just fucking smells like him." As he lit himself another cigarette to replace the one that was taken away, he realized that he had started smoking heavily to cover the smell; the musky smell of the other man that his wife always returned home with. It was a smell that lingered in her hair, her clothes, her skin, a smell that had leached into every corner of the house.

He heard the dull clack of ceramic against wood, followed by the slush of fluid against the container. She reached over and refilled his empty cup as well. She dipped a slender finger into the drink and then licked the alcohol off.

"How long has it been? Two years? Three?"

"Three years and eight months."

_And counting. _

"Why don't you just let her go?"

He cast a sideway glance at her, which she caught as she was looking at him, though quite dispassionately as usual. The carnal hunger in her eyes earlier was gone, replaced with an emptiness that was painful to watch. There were occasions when he would wonder if he looked like that as well, but he never had the courage to really look at himself anymore, for he was afraid of what he had become. He emptied his sake in one gulp, the back of his throat burning. "Can you?"

She looked away.

He knew, both of them were alike, which was perhaps what attracted them to seek each other in the first place. Both of them were dragging a massive amount of emotional baggage, holding on to ineradicable sorrows and faithfully playing the role of the unassailable martyr who hid behind pretenses so that no one would see the torment of their own personal anguish.

She was a broken woman standing at the grave of a dead lover and he was a broken man standing at the empty bed of a lost lover.

"We're pitiful, aren't we, Abarai?"

"Yes we are, Matsumoto," he sighed, the cigarette smoke escaping from between his lips and rising into the lights, "Yes we are."

_x . x . x_

"You're home early." Her startled eyes met his as she slid the door open. She removed her shoes and headed to the kitchen, immediately busying herself with whatever unwashed dishes that was at hand. "It's been a busy day at the human realm yesterday. The paper work that I have to deal with is enormous! The more things I do, the more reports I have to hand in. Isn't that unfair? They really should…"

He yanked her away from the sink, and he could hear the clang of plates against the metal basin as he crushed his lips against hers. Her whole body froze momentarily and then she pushed him away, quite harshly, nearly like it was a stranger who had kissed her.

Or like she was trying to hide something.

She tasted like mint, a taste that was highly unusual in Soul Society. He could see the guilt in her downcast eyes, in her quivering lips, in every ounce of her body. It was almost like she knew that he knew. Or maybe, she did know that he knew. Sometimes, he felt that she was no longer putting any real effort into hiding it.

"What are you doing Renji? The dishes could have broken."

He smiled. "I missed you, that's all. I haven't seen you in days because of our work schedule. Don't you miss me too?"

"Of course I do."

_Liar._

Obviously, he had expected that answer; it was one of those automatic replies that would always slip so easily from her tongue, a performance that had been perfected with a practiced smile and lighthearted tone. He had seen through that act a long time ago, but like a scheming form of punishment, he would still force her to say the lies over and over again. The lies that he had gotten accustomed to hearing, the lies that were used to cover up the shame that was written all over her.

"Would you like me to make you one of your favorites today? I think there's still beef in the freezer." She quickly returned to her unwashed dishes, turning her back towards him.

"That will be great, Dear." He fully understood that he was tormenting her with his loving words, playing relentlessly with her mounting guilt. But he had long sunk into an abyss of unsalvageable despair, trapped in a situation that he could not change, fighting with demons that taunted him. And those demons in him had granted him the right to such torture.

And it always worked.

For after her carefully prepared dinner, they would always have sex - naturally initiated by her.

But there would be no passion. No passion in her actions, no passion in her moans, no passion in her kisses and no passion in her touch. It was all just a carefully scripted play that she starred in, doing everything that was necessary to make him believe that she was relishing in the act and that she still yearned for him. He knew better. For there were times when he wondered if his passion for her, had too, been smothered out by the lies. But still, he would go along with her, bruising her with his touch and kisses, and bruising himself in his countless deliberate attempts of emotional suicide.

He could keep ignoring the marks on her body that were not made by him. He could keep crying out her name in seemingly unbridled pleasure while silently praying that the name that should leave her lips would never be anyone else's name. He could keep forgiving her for her treacherous love.

For four years and three months, he had kept forgiving her.

Or at least kept pretending to.

Yes.

He could keep pretending. If that was what it took to keep her by his side.

_x . x . x_

He had not planned on seeing him, never once in those four years and eleven months, had he thought of seeing him. But perhaps fate thought it would be entertaining if they did.

"Been a while. Wow, you cut your hair."

The distinctive mint of his gum and the slightly musky scent of his cologne was choking him. "Yeah. Easier to handle in the mornings."

"Man, you've been smoking? It kills, ya know."

He shrugged off-handedly.

_It helps me escape from you._

But that was a thought that he left unsaid. Instead, his vermillion eyes settled on the younger man's left ring finger. "So, you're married?"

"Oh," he uncomfortably stuffed his hands into his pants' pockets, hiding away the wedding band. "Yeah. Five years or so."

"Kids?"

"Nah. Not on my agenda."

"Well," he rested a hand into the soft folds of his black kimono, a deceitfully easy smile on his face, "I'm married as well. To Rukia."

He feigned surprise, a pathetically poor attempt. "Oh. I see. How's she? Haven't seen her in a while."

_Liar._

"Ah, you know her. Same obnoxious little lady." They exchanged a polite, mutual chuckle. It was strange, how the years could change the relationship between two men who used to be comrades. "We should meet up, you know, for old time's sake."

"Yeah," he frowned, unease obvious in his expression.

He smirked, one that was probably no different from the contemptuous kind that he was used to giving. He was punishing him as well, the same form of punishment that he was inflicting upon the woman he loved. He wanted to destroy this man who stole his love away from him. He wanted to rip out his guilt and force it down his throat till he choked to death.

"Well, gotta run."

"Yeah, sure. See ya around then, Renji."

He gave a lazy backward wave. "See ya, Ichigo."

And as the name left his mouth, it left a bitterness in him that he had not expected. And then he finally realized, for the first time, that the only person he was really punishing, was himself.

_x . x . x_

"Ukitake-taichou?" He opened the door, and frowned instinctively upon seeing him. This was not someone he saw on a regular basis. "Did something happen to Rukia?"

"Ah, no. You worry too much." He smiled, revealing a kindness that had earned Rukia's unwavering loyalty to the 13th Division. A white wisp of hair fell between his gentle eyes, reminding him of Rukia's hairstyle some years back. "She's lucky to have a man who loves her as much as you."

_But my love is not enough._

Ukitake passed him a package. "She bought some _murasame_. She said it's one of your favorite confectionary. She's so thoughtful. It makes poor, single men like me envious."

_There's nothing to be envious of._

"You shouldn't have taken the trouble," he said as he received the box, which was just yet another one of those gifts of atonement that he had been receiving over the years.

"Ah, it was no trouble at all. It would have be wasted if it was left there, since it's always best eaten fresh. Rukia must have forgotten it since she took off in such a hurry."

"In a hurry?"

Ukitake looked thoughtful for a while before he answered. "I would guess she went to get Kurosaki-san. News had been spreading that he had gotten himself into a fatal accident. Poor boy… he was still so young. But still, everyone's pretty excited. He'd created quite a name for himself here in Seireitei."

"I see." He responded calmly, his voice betraying none of the distress that was spreading through him like a lethal poison.

And after an exchange of mundane pleasantries that ended with mutually respectful farewells, he was finally alone in that empty house again. He placed the gift on the dining table and pulled out a chair. He simply sat there motionlessly, staring vacantly at the strokes of his favorite _wagashi_ store name, elegantly calligraphed on the unopened amber packaging. He took out a cigarette, though he knew that this time, there was no longer anything left for him to camouflage. But there was nothing to keep him from trying either, even if he understood the futility of his attempt.

He could keep pretending. If that was what it took to keep her by his side.

Her lies, her deceit and even the scent of the other man upon her skin; if pretending was the only way for him to keep loving her and holding onto her, he would accept them all. As long as she remained by his side, he would be willing to accept them all.

But he knew no amount of pretense was going to work this time.

_She's not coming back._

In fact, she had left a long time ago. For five years and seven months, he had just kept pretending that she had not. And sometimes, he would wonder if she had ever even been there.

And for the first time in his life, as he dropped the cigarette that had burned his fingers, he broke down and cried.

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- End -

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**Note:** I always torture Renji.

Thank you once again for reading my work.

_- bows - _

I hope you enjoyed it.


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